Morticai's Luck

by Darlene Bolesny

  Coryden’s long hair was braided; his rich attire was perfect. His embroidered silk tunic was cut in the traditional corryn fashion, the delicate cut-outs along the hem and neckline a counterpoint to the velvet edging which lay beneath them. The ease with which his left hand swung around his court sword was all that betrayed his station as a captain in Watchaven’s Northmarch. It had been Morticai who had secured the invitation to the prestigious court party for which he’d dressed in his best style, but it was Morticai who had failed to join him, as planned, at the party. And so he had returned to Northgate, to pace in Morticai’s room, waiting impatiently for his wayward charge, as he had done so often before.

  The door lock clicked a couple of hours short of dawn. Coryden prepared to deliver his long-considered monologue detailing just how he had spent his night awaiting Morticai’s return. When the door opened, instead of speaking, he just stared.

  Standing in the doorway, Morticai leaned—or slumped—against the jamb and stared back. He clung to the doorframe for support. His black hair, finely but thoroughly streaked with silver, was wildly loose and tangled. His crumpled, filthy street clothes appeared to have been slept in, and he seemed shorter than usual, almost shrunken. His complexion, pale even by corryn standards, could now compete with some corpses Coryden had seen. His deep blue eyes looked pained, but it was the two blackened circles beneath those eyes that struck Coryden speechless. It had been a long time since he’d seen Morticai look so beaten.

  Morticai spoke first. “Some son-of-a-bitch stole my clothes.”

  “W-what?”

  “My good clothes! What I was going to wear to the ball—the shirt with the imported Tradelenor lace, y’know?”

  “Morticai, what the Darkness happened to you? Who did this? Did someone beat you up for your clothes?”

  Morticai looked puzzled. “Oh. Uh, I’m sorry, Coryden. I guess I do look a little rough around the edges.”

  “A little!”

  “I … uh, got into a bit of a scuffle at the tower and had to run. That was before I found out about my clothes. I hid them within sight of the palace! What’s the world coming to? That shirt cost me a month’s wages!”

  Morticai stopped ranting and looked down. Coryden started towards him, expecting him to fall.

  “I’m sorry,” Morticai said. “It took me … so long to get back. Gods, my head hurts.”

  Coryden helped him into the room, and his concern deepened with every step. He wanted to pick him up and carry him to the bed, but Morticai, stubborn as always, shook him off.

  “Listen to me, Cor—I was right about Lord Aldwin! I’m positive he’s Droken. I found some coded papers. Better yet, I found the cipher key! I copied what I could.”

  “Right … did anyone get a good look at you?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Only one human actually saw me.” He decided not to mention the other human, the one who hadn’t lived through the experience. “Besides, it was dark. I just wish … things would stop spinning.”

  “I was wondering if I should search for you. Judging by your appearance, maybe I should have.”

  Morticai sighed. “Yeah,” he said. “I was beginnin’ to think y’were goin’ to have to come find me.”

  Coryden blinked in surprise. Morticai had to be really hurting to lapse back into his old street accent. “I’m going to get Dualas, Morticai,” he said. “I think he’d better have a look at you.”

  “Coryden,” Morticai said, “I’m not hurt tha’ bad. I mean, by the Gods, th’ guy barely drew blood.”

  Coryden paused at the door. “Stay put. That’s an order.”

  Morticai sighed and nodded as Coryden closed the heavy door. He sank down onto his bed and cradled his aching head in his hands. “Gods,” he said. “There’ll be the Darkness to pay tomorrow.”

  Chapter Three

  Watchaven’s human Northmarch commander, Kirwin McFerrin, scowled at the trio before him. Coryden and Dualas flanked Morticai, who looked like he’d been in a brawl. He was uncertain as to whether they were there for moral or physical support. Morticai looked ill and unsteady on his feet. He also avoided looking directly at his commander—a definite sign of trouble. Kirwin glanced at his second-in-command, Phillip, who had already fetched Morticai’s file from the clerk’s office and now sat waiting patiently at his small writing desk, quill in hand.

  Kirwin looked down at the file and sighed wearily. “All right, men—let’s hear it.”

  Dualas and Coryden glanced at each other over Morticai’s head, deciding who would act as Morticai’s spokesman.

  “Let’s start with you, Morticai,” Kirwin said, cutting them off.

  Morticai looked up and gave Kirwin his best innocent look. The darkened circles beneath his eyes made him look almost comical. “I, uh, got into a bit of a tussle last night, sir.”

  “So I see.”

  “This guy stole my clothes.”

  Dualas’s rolling eyes gave it away. “Is he lying, Sir Dualas?” Kierwin said.

  Sir Dualas was full corryn, with coal black hair and deep green eyes. He thought carefully before he answered. A Knight of the Faith, he had been assigned to the Northmarch by his Order, and whether it was because of the reputation—or the reputed antics—of Coryden’s squad, or because of his close friendship with Coryden, he had always chosen to serve with them. Kirwin knew he could depend on Dualas for a truthful answer.

  “No, sir—not exactly. Someone actually did steal his clothes, but that is not the most important issue. And I do not believe he knows that it was a man who stole them.”

  “Why would some lady steal them?” Morticai asked.

  “What? I don’t know!” Dualas replied.

  That snapped it for Kirwin. “Enough! Let’s hear it—all of it—from the top, Morticai! I’ve got to be out of here before the Sanctorium strikes the hour.”

  Morticai gave Kirwin a vague account of what had happened at Lord Aldwin’s manor. Kirwin’s face grew wearier with each sentence of Morticai’s report.

  Dualas added that, in his expert opinion, Morticai would not be able to function on horseback for several days. Kirwin’s second-in-command faithfully recorded their words.

  An uncomfortable pause followed. “Morticai,” Kirwin said, his voice rising almost to a bellow, “why do you constantly get involved in things like this! This is the second time this year you’ve crossed swords with the nobility! I hadn’t dreamed it was possible for you to get into more trouble than you did over that damned … courtesan!”

  “But sir,” Morticai complained, “her lord was beating her. He would have killed her—you agreed with me that you would’ve done the same.”

  Kirwin’s eyes narrowed. “No, mister! I said that I would have done what I could to help her run away. I would not have spirited her into Northgate to hide her! Besides, that’s not the issue here.” He stood and began pacing. “I ought to turn you over to the City Watch for this,” he muttered.

  He stopped pacing and stood directly in front of Morticai. “What do you expect me to do the day you’re caught? What am I supposed to say to someone like Lord Aldwin? ‘I’m sorry, but Morticai is the only thief we have in the Northmarch. He’s had this problem for years’?”

  “But,” Morticai began, “if he’s Droken—”

  “And what proof do you have?” Kirwin interrupted. “Some papers covered with gibberish?”

  Morticai looked bewildered.

  “That’s the problem, mister! You may be right. But it’s none of our business! Not unless we catch him wearing his robes outside the city. This is work for the Faithful.”

  He paused a moment, gazing suspiciously at Dualas. “Dualas, were you involved in this?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did you know about it?”

  “Not before last night, sir.”

  “Coryden?”

&nb
sp; Coryden shifted his weight uneasily. “I knew he had some information, sir. I didn’t know how he had gotten it. We were supposed to go to a ball last night.”

  “Um-hm.” Kirwin shook his head in dismay. He walked to where his second-in-command sat and gestured for the officer to hand him the page he’d been penning.

  “We can’t use this,” Kirwin muttered. “If we put this in the official record, we’ll have to turn him over to the City Watch.”

  “What should I put down, sir?” his second asked.

  Kirwin sighed. “Pen the following,” he instructed. “‘Morticai injured while off duty, refused to say how. Confined to quarters until able to resume patrol duties, unexcused patrol absence.’ That should do. Dock him for two cycles of patrol pay—and don’t forget to charge him for this page and whatever you had to throw away.”

  “Hey!” Morticai complained. “That page cost me—”

  Kirwin spun around, his face reddened by his anger. “You’d better be glad that’s all it’ll cost you, mister! You should get public lashes for this!”

  Morticai fell silent and took up staring at the floor.

  Kirwin returned to his desk. “I’d like to give you the punishment this calls for,” he added, pounding his fist down on the desk. “One more stunt like this, Morticai, and you’ll be based at Mid-Keep instead of Watchaven! Now, get the Darkness out of my office before I change my mind!”

  “Yessir,” Morticai mumbled. He gave a sloppy salute, turned on his heel, swayed, and promptly dropped to the floor.

  Coryden and Dualas caught him before he hit.

  Kirwin shook his head and sat back down at his desk. “Get him out of here, you two, and see to his wounds.”

  “Commander—” Coryden began.

  “Captain,” Kirwin said in a dangerously low voice, “you are dismissed.”

  * * *

  Five days later, after an uneventful patrol, Coryden and Dualas paused before Morticai’s heavy wooden door. They could hear, coming from the other side, a thump-thump, thump-thump.

  “Knives,” Coryden whispered.

  “I’ve heard,” Dualas whispered back, “that his insistent practicing was the only trouble he caused while he was confined to quarters. The men in the barracks below had difficulty sleeping.”

  Coryden shook his head and slowly opened the door. Morticai stood at the far end of the room. He’d pushed the table pushed back against the wall and had set up an array of knife targets around him. He whirled toward the window and let his last two knives fly toward a low target. He quickly spun back around.

  “Thank Gods, you’re back!” Morticai said.

  “We weren’t gone that long, Morticai,” Coryden said.

  “Yeah, that’s easy for you to say! You weren’t cooped up in quarters with your head spinning for days.”

  “You do seem to be quite improved by the experience, however,” Dualas noted.

  “Well … yeah. Anyway, I’ve deciphered those notes I got at Aldwin’s, and they just don’t make any sense. I thought maybe you two could help.”

  Coryden and Dualas exchanged glances—Morticai seemed to have already forgotten Kirwin’s threats. Meanwhile, Morticai had gone to his bed, flopped across it on his stomach, and was fishing beneath it.

  A muffled ‘Ah’ came from under the bed, and Morticai sat up with a small wooden chest in his hands. He promptly dropped the chest and grabbed his head.

  “Unngh.”

  “Morticai?” Coryden asked. Dualas scowled.

  Morticai reopened his eyes. “Oh, I’ll be all right. I should have known not to turn upside down.”

  He opened the chest and pulled out a stack of papers.

  “Morticai!” Coryden exclaimed. “Did all of that come from Aldwin’s?”

  “Well, I certainly didn’t buy it,” Morticai replied.

  Coryden rolled his eyes. Morticai handed one of the pages to Sir Dualas. Dualas’s scowl deepened.

  “I think you should read this,” Dualas said shortly, handing the note to the Captain. “Are you certain you did this correctly?” Dualas asked, gesturing at the pile of papers that Morticai was digging through.

  “Huh?” Morticai finally replied. “Oh, yeah, I think so.” He handed the cipher key to Dualas, along with another note.

  One by one, they passed the notes around.

  “Hmm,” Coryden muttered. “I don’t know, Morticai. These don’t make any sense.”

  “See, that’s my problem,” Morticai complained. “There’s all this talk about voting, but who is voting, and what in Glawres’s name are they voting on?”

  “You can’t even use these to prove Aldwin’s involvement,” Coryden said, tossing the last note back onto the bed. “He could claim they were discussing anything that required a vote by the nobility.”

  “It would be easier to understand if they had not used so many misleading terms,” Dualas admitted. “No doubt, that was their intention, but we should be able to decipher some of it. Let me see.” He began to pace. “If we assume that your basic thoughts are correct, Morticai, and that Lord Aldwin, Lord Valdir, and Sir Ellenwood are Droken, then these notes could confirm that they are working together on this council, whichever one it is, and voting in concert. And if they were Droken, they would obviously not be working for the best interests of the kingdom. Mention is made of Dynolva …” Dualas stopped and stared hard at Morticai. He suddenly strode to the bed and seized one of the messages.

  “That’s it! It refers to the meeting—“ Dualas pointed. “—here, as bimonthly. There is only one council which meets bimonthly—the trade council!” he said triumphantly.

  “The what?” Coryden asked.

  “The trade council?” Morticai echoed dismally. “All this time I thought it was something important.”

  Dualas looked at them, surprised. “But, my friends, this is most important. And, I do believe, it’s beginning to make sense. Yes … Morticai,” Dualas suddenly demanded, “how much does a goblet of good Dynolvan wine cost?”

  “A few ferdhyn,” he replied.

  “Ah, that tells me you haven’t bought any recently.”

  “Evidently not!” Coryden said. “Last week, the cost doubled from six to twelve.”

  “Twelve ferdhyn!” Morticai protested. “That’s ridiculous!”

  “Exactly,” Dualas said. “That increase is a direct result of the trade council’s new tariff imposed on Dynolvan wine.”

  “How do you know that?” Morticai asked suspiciously.

  “Well,” the knight admitted, “in truth, I would not know if Gunhar had not been complaining last week when I stopped by The Foaming Tankard. However, I know from what he said that most of the tavern owners in town are quite upset about it.”

  “All right, so this means they’ve made the tavern owners angry,” Morticai said. “And that’s supposed to further the cause of Droka?”

  “Somehow, it must,” Dualas replied thoughtfully. “Gunhar said Watchaven was retaliating because Dynolva had increased their tariff on goods shipped through our harbor. Why Dynolva would do such a thing, I do not know. However, I think it is unlikely our three Droken would be involved if it did not serve the Dark One.”

  “So?” Coryden asked. “We’re back where Kirwin said we were—waiting to catch them wearing Droken robes.”

  “If they were not of the nobility,” Dualas responded, “we could easily demand an investigation by the Faithful.”

  “Well, maybe you can’t ask for an investigation now,” Morticai said, “but if I can get some solid evidence, the Faithful will investigate them, whether they’re nobles or not.”

  “Didn’t you hear Kirwin?” Coryden said. “He was serious! If you get into trouble one more time, he will transfer you to Mid-Keep. Then, what would you do? You’d go insane! No taverns, no ladies—”

  “N
o, I wouldn’t. I’d jump contract.”

  “What? Morticai!”

  “Oh, Coryden, I’m not serious!” Morticai shook his head. “But, I can’t just let this go.” A wicked grin crept onto his face. “I mean, do you want to spend the rest of your life paying twelve ferdhyn for Dynolvan wine? Besides, if I find enough evidence Kirwin can’t say a thing.”

  Coryden shook his head. He knew that Morticai was pushing him, teasing him—but he also knew that there were times when Morticai’s stubbornness was simply unshakable.

  “How do you propose we find this evidence?” Dualas’s question stunned Coryden. The knight was actually encouraging Morticai!

  “Well,” Morticai said, “I’d start by following them, like before. The connections must go deeper. Maybe other council members are involved. Who is Aldwin getting his instructions from? He’s not making these decisions himself, is he? And I haven’t even had time to follow Ellenwood yet.”

  “I suppose that would be a good place to begin,” Dualas agreed. “I could probably get us the names of the others who serve on the council. However, I suggest that you do not engage in more midnight investigations without us agreeing to it first.”

  “Hey! What kind of a thief do you think I am? I put serious thought into this, y’know.”

  “If you wish my assistance,” Dualas said, his voice dropping into a warning growl, “you’ll let me know what you are doing—more specifically, what you are doing that could get you, and us, into trouble. Do you agree or not?”

  Morticai sighed. “All right, I agree.”

  Coryden could remain silent no longer. “You’ve both gone crazy!” he cried. “This isn’t any small thing to be involved in, Morticai. You’ll be dead in a sennight if they discover what you’re …”

  Dualas interrupted. “That is precisely why I am willing to help, Coryden. Morticai is already involved. And you are correct, this is not a small matter. I did not say I approved of the methods he has used so far. I would, however, rather assist him, to know where he is and what he is doing, than to allow him to disappear into the hands of the Droken.”